The Apennines

Unfortunately I’ve met no English speakers in Pescasseroli. Because I want someone to ask me what I’m doing there. So I can say: "I’m taking a few days out from my multi-continental motorcycle trip to climb some mountains and go snowboarding." Not so much to impress anyone, just to have the opportunity to say it out loud. The opportunity comes along all too rarely.

After a brief, largely sleepless stay in a campsite surrounded by baying hounds, I moved to a fantastic little guesthouse where an Italian Mamma called Elenor fusses over me like some celtic prodigal son. She rattles on in Italian despite my obvious ignorance of the language. I’ve found repeating the last word of each sentence with a knowing nod and chortling when she chortles keeps her happy.

Pescasseroli is quiet, sleepy without a doubt. Unlike any other alpine town I’ve ever been to. The locals spend the morning mooching languidly between café and delicatessen. Then disappear for the afternoon , presumably to rest after the mornings exertions. Shops and institutions close. Washing flaps lazily in the warm breeze and the dogs yawn, hours yet from the evenings’ baying. An old man in a dusty suit snoozes on a bench, alpine hat low over a creased mahogany face.
The evening perks the locals up and lights flicker on, the pizzerias and cafes refill. Wether they go to bed between now and the morning I do not know.

Friday and I’m forcing aching legs up through the snow to the top of Monte delle Vitelle. I feel unfit and lightheaded, at points I’m reduced to ten steps between rests. But the summit’s a joy, as all summits are, and the views across the Apennines are superb.

On Saturday the local ski resort opens and I’m snowboarding again. It has been four or five years, I forget exactly how long. My first turns are ridiculous, stiff legged and hunchbacked. "God, I’m rubbish!" I think to myself. But the years collapse slowly and by the end of the run I’m cruising comfortably, thinking: "Ah, that’s it, knees bent, back straight, shoulders in line…Oh, I ain’t that bad!" I grin as the rush returns. Why it’s been so long I don’t know.
A few runs in and I decide to see if I can still do those olly 180s I used to pop off with such sang froid.
No, is the answer. I land with a loud crump and exhalation of wind. My shoulder aches the rest of the day and I decide I’ll need a little more board time before I’m back dropping into gullies with Al and Scotty. A week, say. In Verbier? Chamonix? Ooh, La Grave! I’m getting ahead of myself. Still got to ride my bike to Nepal after all.

Sunday I use the chairlift to get some altitude, intent on Picco la Rocca. But the snow is awful; heavy and wet. I sink up to the knees with each step and I soon realise I’m not going to make la Rocca. With the speedy resolve of someone approaching the age of trousers with elastic waistbands I decide to can the la Rocca idea and take a leisurely plod up two small tops close to the resort. I breathe in the Apennines from these fabulous, accessible viewpoints and with guilty pleasure, tuck into an ample lunch intended for a strenuous day on the mountain. Soon I’ll be leaving here and for the first time on the trip feel real regret to be moving on so soon.